


Blank mirrors

by Greykite



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Ambiguous Personality Disorder, Family Drama, Gen, Military, Mother-Son Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24725662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite
Summary: He and his mother don't see much of each other. And not just because they both serve in the Alliance Navy.
Relationships: Male Shepard & Hannah Shepard
Kudos: 2





	Blank mirrors

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Пустые зеркала](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24722122) by [Greykite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite). 



> Author's non-default Shepard and head-canons; Torfan is mentioned.

For as long as he could remember, his life was on ships.

Here, for example: he is two years old or a little more, his father has put him on his shoulders, and from the observation deck space opens to the child in all the glittering vastness of void. Or another piece of memory: he is about ten, eating a protein bar, not noticing its tastelessness, listening from afar to the conversations in the ship's dining room. His mother is late, as always, and by the time she arrives, the scarce, natural coffee spilled in standard plastic cups would probably be cold, but she would — as always — prefer not to notice.

Yes, he had seen enough ships and space stations in his life (except _the_ Citadel itself) — but here he had been born: on the then-unfinished Arcturus. Strictly speaking, he was the first child born here. Even pregnancy couldn't hold Hannah yet-not-Shepard from duty: if she got into the draw, so be it.

And here he had stayed the year he turned sixteen, after his father's funeral. Lieutenant commander Shepard had received orders to take a patrol ship to the batarian border the day after her husband's funeral ceremonies were over, and her son, after all, had yet to graduate from high school.

Yes, this was where he sat then — with a textbook on alien military doctrines and a stinging mark on his neck where his mother's fingers had clenched too tightly, bending his head down — so that none of his father's fellow soldiers standing next to them at the farewell ceremony would see his tearless eyes.

He sat just here: in his mother's cabin, on the same straight metal chair where her service uniform now hangs.

Hannah Shepard herself is in full dress uniform now. Same as her son.

He stands in front of her, almost like on duty: his hands are clasped behind his back, his feet shoulder-width apart; after all, she is still higher in rank.

"You should wear your awards today."

She drops it casually, adjusting a fold of fabric on his shoulder. The shoulder twitches reflexively; he barely has time to stop the gesture that hasn't started yet.

"If you say so, ma'am."

Her face freezes as if from a slap — or, more precisely, as from a premonition of a slap, unimaginable, unthinkable.

A face that he - gradually - almost lost the habit of seeing: even voice communication with someone other than direct command was usually unavailable on the mission; not to mention the video-calls.

Adamant brows. A firm, well-defined chin. Short — almost masculine — haircut.

And the chill — the unfading frost at the bottom of the bright eyes.

_«Monster»._

A ruthless, fearless monster that is unleashed when the Alliance needs it.

The monster looks at the woman who gave birth to him.

"I would like to be proud of you."

 _"You would like to - and you can't,"_ he thinks. She would like to pretend that everything is all right, that everything is normal – that it's all "officer's honor" and "worthy role models", the dynasty, the memory of a dead husband.

She would like to have no problems with him now, at the banquet in honor of the "day of military glory", — to have him nod, smile only with the edges of his lips, since he can not do it another way, accept congratulations and raise all the necessary toasts: even if he knows the history of The First Contact War well enough to recognize the bravura falseness.

It would be better if she asked him to wear beads — the makeshift ones, in which he contacted the headquarters from the captured command centre, and from the sight of which major Kyle threw up right on the holographic panel. The beads - the eyes of batarians' war prisoners in a thin shell of solidified omnigel, strung on wires from the mercilessly gutted hardware that controlled the protective systems of underground bunkers.

That, at least, would be fair.

"My service record is well known, ma'am. Including to my superiors."

Her lips quiver as if they are about to open again.

He doesn't even have to guess: it's unthinkable for his mother to suddenly say that aloud. _"Please."_

"And the press, according to my information, is not allowed in there."

He looks at her directly, without blinking — people are usually unnerved by this direct look of his: he realized this when he has learned to give orders.

His mother purses her lips. With this expression, her face becomes five years older at once.

"I'm being transferred to SSV Kilimanjaro." She says at last. "We may not see each other for another year."

"I'll keep that in mind, ma'am.:

Perhaps he should have at least reported his own transfer in return. To say that he is grateful to Captain Anderson — and even not to lie in that. But he doesn't add anything more.

The reddish spot on his mother's left cheek really looks like a blow mark. The right cheek remains white and motionless — like his own whole face. 

_"There is no justice,"_ he thinks. _"But **it** is just."_

For as long as he could remember, his life was on ships. He could not even think of being written-off — being thrown there, "in the mud" - so he did not argue: if his "deviation" allows him to serve in the military only on certain conditions, so be it.

Because someone has to.

Why not him — if it is really too easy for him to discharge a weapon at a live target, as the tests show. If the external "good" and "bad" are always not have enough motivational force on him. If instead of what is called "empathy" he has the ability to observe and calculate the consequences.

And besides: no close friends, no even girlfriend to worry about reputation.

Yes, he agreed without argument — but it was his mother who brought him to the military psychologist without waiting for him to come of age. It was his mother who answered, alone, without her son, to the questions of this dry man with glasses. It was she who approved the deal first: because it was easier for everyone this way.

The Alliance needs soldiers who can effectively perform any task.  
Mothers need sons who put their duty to the Alliance above all else.  
They both knew how these things were actually done — only, unlike her, he didn't need excuses.

He always had a poor understanding of metaphors, but he remembered one phrase: "No use crying over spilt milk."

Something seems to break in her eyes. She blinks.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

 _"I could say thank you."_ It must have been something she would have wanted — but she wouldn't have understood if he'd actually said that. She wouldn't know if he was being sincere or mocking.

To be honest, he wouldn't know it himself.

So instead, he shakes his head.

"I should go. Permission to be dismissed, ma'am."

It's a word his mother knows very well - "should". And "must". Sometimes it seems to him that in childhood he was taught these words before any other; and if so, then his mother really should not complain.

She lets him go with a short, almost invisible nod — almost forcibly bending her inexorable neck by a degree or two.

He turns away, not allowing himself — or rather, simply not understanding how and why this is done (how it happens to people - normal people, not ones who grew to become the army dogs) - to lower his head or hunch his shoulders.

From the back, they both - the son and the mother - are so similar that it almost hurts the eyes to see.


End file.
